


Four A.M.

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-11
Updated: 1999-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair gets off, Jim gets off, and they eat eggs for breakfast. by Miriam</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four A.M.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to "Anthem" but does read as a stand alone.

## Four A.M.

by [Miriam](mailto:)  


Author's homepage: <http://www.asan.com/users/pongo/>

Disclaimer: No profit but pleasure. 

Notes: This is a companion piece to "Anthem" but does read as a stand alone. Thanks to Dyevka for showing me where Jim's prostrate is, and to Pumpkin for her beta feedback. 

Summary: Blair gets off, Jim gets off, and they eat eggs for breakfast. 

* * *

So here I am again, standing at the top of the stairs and watching Jim sleep. It's an odd arrangement all around. I mean, I'm sure he knows I'm here. He has to. But he hasn't so much as opened an eye. So I'm free to watch him. Like I said, it's an odd arrangement. 

He's supposed to be watching me. I'm the one that nearly died. Okay, I'm the one that died. No nearly about it. Dead is as dead does, and I was over on the other side for a bit. Don't know if Heaven's a jungle or if that was Hell. It's not like it matters. I've never really believed in all that stuff anyway. Maybe that was Purgatory. Or something else. Another planet. I don't know and don't really care, except right now, at four in the morning when I should be asleep because I have to teach tomorrow, my eyes feel heavy but won't stay closed for more than a few minutes at a time. I think I think too much. I think, therefore I am. Which means I must _be_ an awful lot, given how much time I put into thinking about it. Introduction to Philosophy, brought to you by your part-time graduate instructor, Blair Sandburg. The mid-term will be a selection of IDs. 

Jim's pectorals are really amazing. No. That won't be on the test. I'm just noticing them, because man, if you've stared at the same guy every night for a whole week, for three years, eventually, philosophy fails you and you're left with counting the drawers in his dresser. He's got four. And one drawer in his night stand. And a bunch of shelves in his wardrobe. And freaking huge pecs. I mean, even when he's asleep, and they're not flexing or doing much of anything, they're like small mountains on his chest. I'm not even at the point of bothering to compare them with mine, because there's no point. If I did that I'd lose all self-confidence, and I can't really afford that. I mean, the best thing to do when your best friend's built like a poster boy for Greek perfection is just appreciate the diversity of natural selection. 

Thank you, Darwin. He's always calling me that. Darwin. Chief. At first, I was starting to wonder if he'd forgotten my name. But it's just a Jim-quirk, and there are many of those, so I can deal. I mean, it's not like life is easy when your name is Blair. But I let that go. Naomi has no idea how much I let go on any given day. I'm _the_ most patient person on the planet, really. Probably'll develop an ulcer when I'm forty, at this rate. _If_ I'm forty. At this rate, it's hard to count on things like that. 

Jim's going to be fifty one day. Seems kind of wrong to be objectifying your best friend one minute and then thinking he's going to be fifty, but he is. Not that there's anything wrong with fifty. I'll be, um, in my forties when he's in his fifties. Wonder if I'll still be "the kid" then? 

For a guy his age, with no real reason for it, Jim keeps himself in amazing shape. Not that it doesn't come in handy, but I've seen enough ex-Army guys to know it's not a given. Most ex-Army guys you can tell were Army but it's like underneath, where the muscle keeps them looking bulky, but not hard. Jim's built like he doesn't know the war is over. Most cops don't ever shoot off their guns. Most of them never have to chase a suspect more than a few blocks. But Jim, man, his body is prepped for long distance pursuit, weapon loaded, safety off. 

I bet his endurance in bed is amazing. I tend to kind of collapse right after. 

Not that I'm going to find out anytime soon. Things have been tense lately. And I can deal with that, too. Any way he wants to play it. 

Enough of this. Onto the next stage of the nighttime ritual. The Blair Sandburg hour of power. 

* * *

He sleeps with his boxers on. A shame, really. But they come off when I'm in my bed down here. If he's awake, he can hear this, but I don't really care. The acoustics in this place are fantastic. I mean, when he's really going at it, and my doors are open, I can hear him too. He's a pretty quiet guy, overall. Moans sometimes. Usually I can just hear the bed creak under him. He's not a small guy, and that bedspring is getting on in years. One day, he'll either replace it, or I'll find some delicate way of suggesting it. Maybe the next time he complains about his lower back I'll clip him an ad for a waterbed. Yeah, I could get into a waterbed fantasy. 

Okay, so he's got a waterbed, and he's lying in it with his boxers _off_. And the yellow sheets are burgundy. Satin. So yeah, it's kind of tacky, but it's my fantasy. And he's on his back, one arm pulled up under his head, under the pillow. His biceps bulge and his pecs are pulled taut on his side. He's got almost no hair on his chest, until you get down low on his belly where it fans out a bit, getting darker. 

His other hand is sliding down his chest, diagonally, real casual. Like he doesn't know if he's really going to jack off yet. But then he gets down to that line of hair that leads straight to his cock. He's not hard yet. He's just got that morning erection going, full but not something he has to do anything about. He's still not sure if he's going to bring himself off, so he touches himself, putting his hand on his cock right at the base and then pulling up, not too hard. Ah, yeah. Feels good, doesn't it? 

So it's a go, then. Not going to waste it when it feels this good. He pulls at it again, and this time his thumb slides across the head of it, circling over the top and then under the head, just like that. Yeah. 

"Blair," he moans softly, his voice sounding a little rough around the edges, the way it does in the mornings when he says, "Coffee," like it's an order. Which it is, since I pour the coffee without griping too much about the fact that he's closer to the pot. 

Okay. So the problem with trying to jack off while thinking about your best friend is that he's also the guy you make eggs for. Omelets with disgusting things in them. Oh, yeah. Now that's _so_ not a turn on. Ignore the eggs. Breakfast is still three hours away. And Jim is on his burgundy waterbed waiting. 

And his eyes are closed now, 'cause he's so into himself now. Hell, who wouldn't be into that? His legs are open, spread out, and he draws them up, tensing his thighs slightly. He's got light hair on his legs. 

Now he's getting serious about things. His other hand comes down between his legs, bypassing his cock and moving down to stroke his perineum lightly, teasing. He moves back up to cup his balls gently, rolling them a little, feeling them pull up closer against his body, and then he's back to his ass, toying with the idea of putting his finger inside. Conveniently, a tube of lube appears on his bed, and he grabs it, spreading a bit onto this fingers. And then he waits a second for me to figure out where the lube is, since it's not in the night stand and it's not under the bed with the plug, so where the hell-- aha. Nearly outsmarted myself. It's under the pillow. 

And the cap's stuck on the damned tube. Dammit. Okay, calming breath. We can do this. Oh, very nice. The damned tube's leaking lube. This is almost not worth the trouble. Okay, so we'll clean up later. My turn to do the laundry, anyway. 

Where were we? Jim, satin sheets, and a hard on. Right. His eyes are still closed and his face looks peaceful, just the smallest hint of a smile around his mouth which tightens when his finger breaches his asshole, stretching it, not being too gentle, because this isn't his first time. But he's tight because he's never had more than a finger inside, and so he's imagining what a cock would feel like, pushing into him, spreading him wide and filling him up. He moves his legs apart some more, accommodating the body lying between his legs, giving him room to thrust inside. He moans, gasps when his prostate is stroked hard, then again, then again, and his whole body is tensing up, his shoulders lifting off the pillow, muscles flexing, veins on his arms pumping, pumping, and I'm kissing the ridge of collarbone, the flange of muscle at his neck, biting down on it, licking up the salty column of his neck to his chiseled jaw, finding his mouth blindly, ohgodyes, kissing him hard, taking him hard, taking him _high_ , letting my weight settle over his body so he can't forget that I'm _here_ , _alive_ , and he's strong so I don't have to hold myself off, hold myself up above him, which is cool, because my arms are trembling now with strain. So I press into him, letting him do all the work, letting him hold me, lift me, position me where he wants me, because man, that's where I want to be. We're sliding against each other, slick with sweat, and he smells intense, sweaty and warm and so fucking alpha male that I moan as I say his name, over and over, and I've gotta smile because he's got one hand buried in my hair, pulling on it, but what the hell, it's his fantasy. 

Then it's all grunts and incoherent gasps and harder, faster, yeah, oh yeah, right there, right _now_ , there, now, and we're coming, pulses coming so hard I'm shaking with it, choking for air, my chest hurting because I can't breathe, he's on top of me, inside of me, every-fucking-where, he's crying out with it, crying, ohfuck, it's over, it's over. It's over. 

And the sheets are soaked and balled up under me, twisted around me and I know I'm crying now, but it's okay. It's going to be okay. I'm letting it go, and in two hours, I'm going to get up, take a shower, get my head together and make breakfast. Eggs with something disgusting in them. Served with a smile. Sometimes, you just have to not think too much about things, and just _be_. And when I figure out how to do that, I'll let you know. 

Fin. 

* * *

End Four A.M..


End file.
